Missing You
by Stethoscopes and Pinards
Summary: At first, its ok – or at the very least you can pretend it is. It's a skilled exercise in denial as you try to carry on as though absolutely nothing at all has changed. (I'm no good at summaries)
1. Chapter 1

**I've been thinking about this since Creature Comfort (1st April 2016) aired. It was originally a one-shot but will now be a three parter of which I have almost finished part 2. I'm sorry if it's rubbish and for any spelling / grammar errors.**

At first, its ok – or at the very least you can pretend it is. It's a skilled exercise in denial as you try to carry on as though absolutely nothing at all has changed. You don't really like to think of it as lying. It isn't as though you are committing it to words, or trying to bring other people in to it. It's just the way your mind chooses to work. You can think of how everything will go back to normal. You plan it out in your head – and it makes sense. Of course you have to ignore a few key points, and fight to quiet down the little nagging voice in the back of your head – but it's a small price to pay.

At one point you find yourself holding your mobile phone. You have the message screen up and a number ready and waiting. Your fingers hover over the keyboard ready to type a message. You want to enquire as to how their holiday is going. Even though you know full well it isn't a holiday; or at the very least it isn't a temporary one. But it's easier to think of it as being a holiday. You return from a holiday. You come back. And that is what you are hoping for. The text message is never sent of course. It's never even typed out either for fear that your finger would slip and hit send. But you sat there for far too long contemplating it.

It takes almost a month for your façade to break. To an extent you had been expecting it, but somehow the way it happened was almost disappointing. It wasn't something earth shattering. It wasn't even a point of note. Just a throwaway comment from a colleague that you couldn't get out of your head. They weren't even talking to you. You shouldn't even have been in that room. But now the bubble has been burst.

It's then that you become angry. At first you are angry with your colleague, though you know that is wrong – and that makes you angry at yourself. You hate feeling that way but the feeling won't leave no matter how hard you try. You don't want to give in to it. You don't want the emotion to feel the satisfaction of winning – and the illogical nature of your thought patterns makes your anger all the worse.

You are angry with them too. After all, if they hadn't left you this whole sorry situation would not have resulted. You very nearly delete their number from your phone in a fit of annoyance, and in a fit of temper – and with the thought that, this will show them – you very nearly unfriend them on social media. And in truth, they may not even notice that you had done so for some time; considering how infrequent your updates are anyway. And if they were to realise that would hurt their feelings, and you don't want that at all. And so you cycle back towards being angry with yourself first and foremost.

It is only when you move away from anger that you consider that you are working your way through the stages of grief. Not that you have experienced a death, but you feel that same pain at the loss. You fear it. You waited too long to realise how you felt, and now you have been left empty and hurting.

You flit back and forwards in to anger, and even cycle back in to your denial at times. You try to convince yourself that you aren't really feeling at all. That this is all just some big trick at your expense. After all what right do you have really to think this way. You want to deny the feelings you have, after all you managed to conceal them before. You had your chance, and you let it go. You let them go. So at the end, it all comes back to being your fault.

You don't even realise there is anything actually "wrong" with you until you overhear a comment at work. You aren't your normal self they say. Someone jokes that perhaps it is a change for the better, but they are quickly admonished. You've changed. There's something that needs to be fixed. But it's not something a practice full of medics have a cure for. They try though. They try to drag you in to different things, but your participation is half hearted. Your laugh is never quite genuine, even when you know something to be humorous. Even in the early days, you were not like this. You were easier to deal with when you were in denial. You were more like yourself then, though you were not fully in the present.

When you are pulled to one side by a friend for a quiet word, you try to put on an act. You laugh when they make a suggestion as to what is wrong. For a moment, you even try to pretend that you have moved on, but that only makes things worse. It makes you angry that you could think that way – and yet you feel you have no right to these feelings. That comment is what results in you being dragged out on a "lad's night". Plenty more fish – they tell you. Not even like you were in a relationship – they say with a smile. Someone even makes a comment about not being left at the alter, but that causes a sour atmosphere. It gives you the excuse to leave.

By the time six months have passed, you think you should be at the point of acceptance. You can't keep up this cycling through emotions. You cannot keep waiting for the day when you suddenly, inexplicable feel like yourself again. You try your own form of therapy. You try to cut down on the time you spend thinking about them, but it backfires quickly. You find yourself staring for too long at a photo of the two of you together. You don't even know how you came to have that photo in your hands, but you lost hours just staring in to the depths of it. As though you could sink back in to that time and place – as if you could go back and change things from that moment onwards.

But you know better than that. You replay moments in your head, and try to alter the ending. You think of that last goodbye. You think of how you should have prevented them going, and how you should have played it differently. But you know deep down that you wouldn't. You know that this is how your story was supposed to play out. That two people such as yourselves would lead lives that way. But it doesn't make it any easier. It's easier to play out the what ifs. It's easier to think of the way things could have been, than to think of the way they will be.

You wonder how life is for them. Whether they are feeling the same as you, and whether this torrent of feelings has plagued them in the same way. In some ways you hope that it has, but in others you wouldn't wish this on anyone – and least of all them. You want them to be happy, and to enjoy life – but you cannot quite contemplate how you are supposed to do the same.

At seven months, you see a photo on social media. You don't remember why you logged in, but it was the first time that came up on your timeline; posted just minutes previously. You lose yourself in that image. All of the feelings bubbling in your chest, as you take in each and every detail you are presented with. You feel a twitch at the smile on their face; how it almost splits their face. Eyes sparkling with a happiness you doubt you'll ever feel again. An arm slung around their shoulders draws your eye to another body. A male figure with a smile just as wide. They are dressed up; enjoying life; enjoying each other. You read so much in that one still shot, and feel the daggers against your heart. You consider leaving a comment, but your fingers feel numb. You just about manage to hit like.

It hurts that they've managed to move on. You want to be happy but how can you be really when that should have been your arm around their shoulders. A week after you go out. You get way too drunk and don't really remember much. You wake up with a phone number written on a scrap of tissue, and you cannot even bring to mind a face. You ring the number three days later, and arrange a date though you aren't entirely sure your heart is in it. But it's a start after all.

At 8 months, she posts a photo of the two of you. You don't even remember when she took it, but almost immediately your colleagues are liking it. They all tell you how good it is to see you looking so happy; how she is a lovely girl. You know what they are all thinking though; that it took you long enough. You know they are making comparisons because you make them yourself. You smile though. You act happy because actually things aren't as bad as before.

When you next log in to your social media though you freeze. One comment is all it takes. One comment and all you can hear is her voice in your mind. One comment that means little, but suddenly it consumes you whole. One comment is enough to send the house of cards tumbling down, though you cannot quite work out why.

 _Lookin' good Haskey_


	2. Chapter 2

**I really hope this is ok. I'm sorry for any spelling / grammar errors.**

There's something surreal about slipping back in to your old life. The foundations don't seem quite so secure as they once had. You are no longer as sure of how to keep an even footing. It is the small things that seem to provoke the biggest reactions. Little errors that had been alright in the life you had created away from home, but weren't so acceptable here. It takes time for all parties to accept that change has occurred.

There's this desire to leave at times – to go back. But you cannot do that. Your feet itch to keep on running, even though you should be content. You are fixing things. Slowly but surely you are working to fix things but there's this ache in your chest that doesn't go away. But you cannot keep running. You cannot go back; you made sure of that. But then you had feared you would never be welcomed back here either.

You cannot keep forging new lives either. You cannot keep trying to escape the past. You act without thinking and that is your biggest problem. Your heart rules your head, and it is only when it is too late that you realise you are in way too deep. You have done it too many times, and you fear it is only a matter of time before you do so again. So you live carefully for now. It is not really living at all; but existing.

Those who you know stop asking questions pretty quickly. You are cagey about what has happened, and if they were that interested they could find out the details for themselves with very little difficulty. You read the comments. The damning reports of your character, and the assassinations by those who don't even know you. They judge harshly, and you know it is deserved. Still you cannot help but wonder what they would have done in your shoes. It cuts deep though; to know this is how people think of you now.

In the first few months, you live primarily in the confines of your home. Your attempts to find work are half hearted because ultimately you do not know what you want to do with your life now. You had worked so hard for your career, fought for it, and yet now you are letting it slip through your fingers. You think of the letters that had come after your name; the title that you worked so hard to earn but no longer feel you have any right to use. You never really deserved it after all.

Eventually your family, and your old friends, grow tired of you acting this way. They want the old you back, and they don't seem to understand that, that person doesn't really exist anymore. You try to avoid anything that relates to your previous life. It hurts too much to think of the people that you have left behind.

You receive messages from them. Kind enquires as to how you are, and what you are up too. They keep you updated on the events in the world you left. But you find yourself deleting them without reading. It hurts too that some don't message at all. It is noticeable; the absence of a name. You should have expected it, of course. It is the way these things have to be, and yet it is painful to hear an email alert and to have the momentary hope that it will be from them. You know of course that it won't. But it doesn't stop that bud of hope, and the pain that follows. Eventually you change your primary e-mail address, and remove the other from your phone. That way you control when you check.

Your friends try to drag you back out in to the real world. You frown when they try to set you up on dates, each time coming up with reasons why you can't go or why this one isn't suitable. You hope that they will stop eventually. There is only a finite number of men after all, and it seems that already you have been offered the majority. It isn't that there is anything especially from with them either. You just aren't ready for all of that. You aren't really ready for anything.

When your best friend asks you to be her maid of honour, you have to fight back the feelings of jealousy. You are happy of her, but you cannot help but wish that you had what she does. You see her life stretching out in front of her, filled with love and happiness and you cannot imagine the same for yourself. You cannot even imagine anything beyond next week. You take each and every day as it comes; never quite prepared for what it will bring. There are days when you feel almost normal. You smile and laugh and think that perhaps you are coming out the other side. That everything might turn out to be ok afterall. But then there are days when you cannot even bring yourself to leave the cocoon of your duvet. The days were you want nothing more than to sob but you do not have the energy to do so. There seem to be more of those days.

Even though you have been gone for 4 and a half months you still miss it. You cannot put in to words how much it pains you. You want to go back, and yet you are terrified by the prospect. You cannot face the idea that you will never see those people again, but the very thought of stepping of a plane and facing them is enough to send you in to a panic. You are so very conflicted each and every moment. You would step back in to that life in a heartbeat, but you know you would make the same mistakes over again.

So it is safer to be here, and to hide. You cannot destroy things here. Just before your friend's wedding, someone warns you not to ruin it. You take it to heart, even though you know they don't mean it that way. They tell you that she has waited so long for this, and you know that. You know how much she deserves her special day and for a moment you think that you'd be best off not going. Of course you know that would be letting her down, but it would prevent you from putting such a dampener on her big day.

By then seven months have passed. You should be getting back to normal. You go to the wedding, and you try to enjoy yourself. You appear smiling in photos but you know it's not real. You are playing pretend, even though it really is a beautiful day. You don't really remember all of the people who pulled you close just as a camera shutter clicked. You barely know who is there and who isn't, and you struggle to accept the compliments thrown your way. You know you've changed. You know that your smile doesn't reach your eyes or light up your face as it once had done. You know too that beneath the make-up, which your friend had applied, you look drawn. You haven't worn make-up for so very long and you appreciate the mask that it offers, sheltering you from really being seen. It isn't long really before you are flagging; struggling under the heat and bright lights. Eventually you find yourself hiding out in a corner, away from the flashing lights and merriment. It calms you down a little, but not enough. It is with a great disappointment you realise how few hours have passed, and how many are left to go.

You find yourself chatting to someone who offers you a few hours work in a local shop, and without really thinking about it you say yes. You know that if you don't it will get back to your mother and she will berate you even though you are very much an adult. She'll tell you she wouldn't be able to look her friend (though you are not even sure your mother and the shopowner are friends) in the eye if you turn her down. So you accept, and maybe it'll even be good for you to spend a few hours interacting with people. It may even take your mind off things. It may even give you the motivation to work out what you actually want to do with the rest of your life.

Work seems to do you good although it is not what you really want to be doing. You try to enjoy it. You interact with people, and you even manage a genuine smile when someone who you once knew well proudly hands you their new baby for a cuddle. The smile starts to falter though when you wonder if you'll ever experience having a baby melt in to your arms, with the knowledge that they are yours; that you don't have to pass them back to their loving family. By the time you hand the baby back over, almost instantly missing the warmth of that tiny body next to yours, you are struggling to keep control of your emotions. The baby's mother, your one time friend, doesn't even seem to notice; or perhaps she simply chooses not to.

That night when you return home, far later than usual, because you'd gone out of your way to have a drink in a place were few would know you, you log on to the internet. You don't really know what you are looking for but you click and scroll absently through the pages. At first you move past the photo without paying much attention to it, but then there's this strange twisting in your gut and against your better instinct you drag the page back up until it is there in front of you. You want for it to disappear but you know that when you close your eyes you will see it burned in to your eyelids.

You don't want him to be unhappy, but you didn't exactly expect him to move on. And yet here he is in front of you with a woman's arms wrapped around him. She looks up at him in the way that causes a stabbing pain in the centre of your chest. You cannot help but compare yourself to her, and you know almost instantly that he has done so much better than you. As much as you had to admit it, this woman is gorgeous. And she loves him. And because he is loved, he has that smile of his face. He looks happy. He looks like you wish you could look. Seeing how they look together, you are so relieved that he cannot see you now. What he would think considering this beauty he stands with?

You don't even realise you've typed a comment until someone has liked it. You brain is too fuzzy and mixed up to recall doing so. You shouldn't have let yourself have that last drink, but now you are thinking you need another. You're hurting now as much as you were when you got on that plane. Perhaps even more so. It's all your own doing of course. Every last mistake is your fault.

You leave the laptop open on the photo, and your comment. Chances are he won't even see it, and even if he does what would it matter. You are nothing to him now. A piece of the past. Someone best forgotten. You should delete the comment really, but you've left the computer to go in search of something to dull the pain. It won't work of course but you'll give it a damn good try. Because right now there is nothing else to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**So this is the last part, and it turned out slightly longer than I intended. I'm sorry for any errors in spelling and grammar. I hope you enjoy reading it.**

He doesn't really know what he is doing, only that he has somehow acted without much thought. It is something that she would have done and that causes him a moment of pause. It was that damned comment that had sparked this whole thing, and now he is wondering if this was all some stupid mistake. She could have just made that comment on autopilot. It probably didn't mean anything at all and yet he couldn't get it out of his head.

 _She has lost herself in the days since. She doesn't pay much attention to anyone or anything; even phoning in sick to her new employer. She knows it annoys her mother. So she coughs with dramatic effect and tries to act as unwell as she can, but she knows everyone sees through it. It's a farcical effort on her part. But it gives her the excuse to hide away. She fights desperately against all urge to find another drink; to send herself in to a stupor. She felt so awful that morning after that night that she doesn't want to let herself get in to that state again._

In his pocket his phone buzzes, announcing the arrival of yet another message. The phone calls seem to have ceased now, but the rate at which the messages arrive has picked up pace. By now they will all have seen the relationship change on that blasted website. He hadn't done it, but he knew she had. He had felt guilty when he had told her that this relationship, not that it really was a relationship (although their profiles said differently), wasn't going anywhere she had seemed genuinely upset. He had given her this whole speel that he had memorised, not quite feeling the words but knowing it was what she needed to hear. She would find out the truth soon enough. He doesn't even bother looking at what this message says. He will have to turn off his phone soon enough.

 _Her dreams are a muddled mess of memories and what ifs. The tease and torment her, and cause her to wake up even more exhausted than when she had fallen asleep. She sleeps away most of the day, and yet she cannot sleep over night. Her brain ticks over, pestering her. She wishes she could turn it off; that she could make everything just stop until she has manged to take stock of everything that is going on. She needs time, quiet. But it isn't to be. Her mum calls to her, telling her a friend is on the phone, but she shouts back that she can't come down, adding in a racking cough that causes her throat to burn. She can just hear the excuses that her mum makes, and even catches the name of the caller. She does for a moment wonder what the call was for. No one from there has called her on the house phone, they would ring her mobile. That presumably meant that it was something serious. She thinks for a moment about going down and asking, but then she will be scolded for not having the decency to go down and talk for herself. She is a grown woman but still she fears her mother's tongue. So instead she burrows further down in to her duvet. Her mum might come up and tell her eventually, or she'd just go back to watching her TV._

The whole travelling thing seems to take a lifetime, and he struggles to distract himself. He is antsy beyond belief. His body is so charged that he struggles to keep still in his seat. He needs to be moving; to try to work out some of this nervous energy. He doesn't even know what he is going to do when he gets there. He should use this time to plan, but he doesn't. Instead he watches as his hand bounces on his jiggling knee. He stares transfixed at it, as though it is something more. He is acting like a nervous schoolboy, and not a professional. He wonders what the rest of the travellers think of him, and then decides that it's probably best not to contemplate that. He really should've sorted himself out more. But everything happened so quickly.

 _When her phone buzzes, she startles. For a moment she thinks about ignoring it but realising it is just a text, she stretches out an arm. It's probably nothing much at all. Probably her boss asking if she's alright and when she'll be back at work. She holds it in front of her bleary eyes and struggles to make sense of what is on the screen. It's a photo of somewhere she recognises, and the words "I'm Lost" below it. It makes little sense to her, and the number isn't one that's in her contacts. She blinks rapidly as if to convince herself that this is real; as if the image and words will disappear and be replacing by something she can comprehend. A minute or so later, the phone buzzes again, "Come find me" the message reads. She doesn't know why but her heart beats more rapidly in her chest. It's stupid. It's probably nothing and yet she is curious. She should know better. She does know better. But all the same she is going to follow the clue._

The waiting here is the worst. Worse than the travel; worse than the days of his inaction. He has acted and now he doesn't know what is going to happen. There has been no return messages. No "who is this", no "how did you get my number". Getting her new mobile number had been a challenge. He hadn't wanted to ask, that would have seemed suspicious but now he fears that he may have sent it to the wrong person. But even if it is her, why should she come at all? He could be waiting here for nothing; for no-one. Just a lonely, broken man. He has seen the way people have looked at him as the trail passed. He is lounging on the bench with just one carry-all bag. Packing had seemed an unnecessary waste of his time. Besides which he may just be turning around to go back.

 _Her mum is unimpressed when she says she is going out. She shouts about how she is supposed to be on her death bed, given her performances, and now she has undergone a miraculous recovery. She doesn't respond. She doesn't need too. Her mum will continue her one-sided conversation long after she has gone. She drives too fast and without much care. She hasn't driven much since she's been here, and it feels strange. She watches as everything passes her by; checking off familiar landmarks that she has passed so many times before. She doesn't really know why she is playing this game; or whether this is a trap of some sort but she keeps on going._

By his estimate she should be arriving soon. He straightens up a little from his slouch, tugging slightly at his shirt, and running his fingers through his hair. He watches as each person approaches, and then passes him by. So many people. And not one of them her. Not one of them holds a candle to her.

 _Walking from her car, she starts to shake. Nerves catching up with her. Her heart beats too quickly in her chest, and her breath comes in short sharp bursts. Everyone around her is rushing, too fast. They press too close to her, and she wants to scream at them. She moves slowly, trying to calm herself; trying to delay the moment of inevitable disappointment. She'll be sheepish when she gets home, and faces her mother. A foolish girl._

He sees her finally. She looks so much more fragile than he remembers. He wants to stand and go to her, but something stops him. For a moment he fears that startling her will cause her to flee, in the same way a delicate bird would flit away.

 _Her eyes deceive her. She sees a man on a bench and she knows it cannot be him. He wouldn't be here, and he wouldn't have contacted her. Not now. He has no need too. And yet the figure moves, and a mouth twitches in to a smile. A smile she knows and has longed to see for too long._

"What are you …" when she speaks to him her voice is soft and unsure, as though he should disappear in an instant. He shifts himself in to a standing position, moving cautiously towards her. His smile falters for a second as he takes in her pallor. She is hurting, and that pains him so very much.

" _I had too …" the words tail off and she frowns. What must he think to see her here like this? But then he looks dishevelled himself. But she is certain that he looks a damn sight better than she does, "not tell you something," she watches as his tongue wets his lips._

"Al," her voice is a little stronger but no louder. She looks at him through hooded eyes, and he shakes his head slightly. He should have thought this through better. He needs a plan. He needs words, "don't,"

" _I needed to tell you," he wets his lips again, and looks down at a shaking hand. She know she is shaking without even looking. Finally he raises his eyes to her, "No games this time, no not telling you, no double meanings and twisted words,"_

She shakes her head, and looks to the ground. He takes one step closer afraid that she will take one step back. With a shaking hand, he cups her chin and slowly raises her face to meet his. Her eyes glisten before his; filled with too much pain and emotion for one person to bear.

" _I love you," he says the words before he can stop himself, and she feels the tears spill over from her eyes. She knows what he will say next. The words he said to her before; on that last day. The last time she heard his voice; the last time she felt the warmth of his body; the last time his scent consumed her, "you .."_

"Don't please," she raises a hand and places it against his chest. He moves his other hand, trying to make the movement seem fluid though it feels robotic. He runs a finger down her cheek, wiping away one tear track.

" _You are going to hear me say that every day for the rest of our lives," With an almost practice movement, she feels herself being pulled in to his body. Beneath her ear, she feels the beat of his heart. She feels the vibration of his phone a second before it rings._

"You'd better get that Haskey," She murmurs the words against his chest. He can feel the way in which her body shudders, and the uneven pace of her breathing. He pulls the phone from his pocket, somehow still holding her against him. It's one of their old colleagues.

" _I better had," She tries to take him in with each of her senses, "I'm at the airport, with Niamh, I just couldn't wait to get here, to be with her," she tries to hear who the voice is at the other end but everything of her is just taken up with him; with his closeness, "I don't think I'm coming back,"_

They click off before he does. They don't even try to argue with him, or ask about what led to this. In time he will explain but for now it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but being here. Nothing matters but the woman he holds against him.

"I love you," he barely hears the words that are whispered against his chest. But he feels them; somehow knows they are spoken as surely as if they had been screamed for the airport roof. It is a wonder that nobody else reacted; that nobody seems to be taken much notice of them at all.

" _I'll say it every day," he whispers the words once more against the crown of her head, pressing a kiss in to her hair. For the first time in so long, she feels that she is home._


End file.
